The Innocents
by Carolyn2
Summary: The Hansel and Gretel story....


The Innocents  
  
They are as alike as two peas in a pod. Innocent and as yet unmarked by the passing of years, they lie together in a cramped cot bed. The forms of their undeveloped bodies make little impression on the mattress, which is cold and rigid as a sheet of ice. The blanket that barely suffices to cover them is wearing thin, fraying at the edges like the life force within them. They are huddled together to share what little warmth they have; their heads are so close on the pillow that their hair mingles together and it is not clear where his ends and hers begins. It is like a pool of gold, melted by the tears they have shed. They lie still, their breathing soft and barely audible. But they are far from sleep. They are listening. Through the wall, their father is sitting by the last embers of the fire. His eyes are fixed on the amber glow emanating from the hearth. He cannot bring himself to extinguish these last rays of warmth. Behind him at the table is his wife, the children's step-mother. She is counting out loud as she pushes coins into a pile with her bony fingers. Seven, eight, nine, ten. Ten. We only have ten groats. Her voice is like her soul - cruel and unforgiving. It wears tirelessly away at him. I know. He is tired of having this conversation. He is tired of her incessant nagging. So what are we going to do? He sighed and did not reply. He hoped she would stop there, as she usually did. But she continued. I have a plan. For some reason, his heart missed a beat. He was overcome by a sense of foreboding and he tore his gaze from the fireplace, turning slowly to face her, his skinny, scheming wife. The children. She looks triumphant and smug, like the cat that has got the cream. But they have no cream. And their cat met its end a long time ago. What do you mean? He dreads her answer. You know what I mean. Silence falls between the two of them. A heavy silence, one might say even suffocating, like the silence of death. He stares at her and she at him, neither speaking a word. He is the first to relent. No. Rage flashed in her eyes almost before the refusal was uttered. She shot out of her seat and was beside him in an instant. Don't be such a sentimental fool, you idiot. Can't you see they're our way out of this mess? She grabbed his hand and formed his fingers into a ring around her wrist. He could feel the bone in every part of it, the flesh stretched across it like tired fabric, leathery and dry. Feel how thin I am. He could feel it. He felt it in himself all the time. No. His second refusal makes her even more furious. She glared at him, full of hatred, and lifted up her skirt so he could see her legs, lean like twigs and too weak to hold her properly. Look. Look what those little parasites of yours are doing to me. They were thinner than the legs of the table she had been sitting at. But he did not need to see hers. His own were the same. He looked straight into her eyes. No. Don't you care about me at all? What do I have to do to make you understand? She steps closer to him and lifts her shirt, revealing the ribs which protrude from her body to the point of almost breaking the pale, wasted skin. Look. Look what I have become because of them. It is the only way. He turns away his head, wracked with guilt. He cannot betray his children, the only reminder he has of their mother. But he cannot refuse this bitter woman standing defiantly before him, watching him as he thinks. She knows he is cracking, and smiles a triumphant, malicious smile. In the bedroom the children clasp hands beneath the covers as they wait for the answer they know must come. As you say, we have no choice. I have no choice. She smiled at his consent, a victory for her. She put her arms about his neck. Thank you, darling. In the next room, the little boy gives a muffled cry before his sister puts a finger to her lips to quieten him. She knows it would be unwise to make a noise, and sets about thinking of a plan to help them.  
  
The next morning it is cold and still. The ground has frozen and the air is as sharp as a knife blade against the skin of the four figures leaving their shabby cottage. An ethereal mist hangs suspended between the fir trees. It envelops them the moment they step onto the path, and the children know that when they look back they will not be able to see their home. Keep up, snapped their step-mother. Your father has to work. They hurried after the two figures in front of them. For what seemed like hours the four of them trudged through the unfriendly forest, not a word passing between any of them. They could feel the jagged edges of stones on the path through the soles of their shoes. Eventually they were so deep in the forest that the pale, watery sun was hidden, shut out by the pointed tops of the trees which surrounded them like rows of sharpened teeth. They stopped walking. Your father has to work. I'm going to help him. Stay here by this tree and don't move if you value your darling little lives. Nasty things live in this forest. A spiteful smile. We'll come back for you when it's time. With that, the two adults left. They were swallowed by the mist before they had gone ten paces. The children are alone. They stand for a while, unsure what to do. They know they will never get home. They heard what she said last night. Exhausted by the walk, they sink to the ground, leaning their fragile frames against the broadness of the tree trunk. They are too tired to speak or cry. A prickling carpet of pine needles beneath them seems to absorb some of the cold, and the forest closes in around them. Their wide eyes begin to close and their tight grip on each other's hands loosens slightly. They slip into sleep. The night passed them by. The shroud of the tree above them masked their presence from the wild things of the forest, and they awoke unharmed the next morning. The little girl was the first to awake. She sat up and looked about her. The mist from the previous day had cleared and she could see the path winding into the forest in two directions like a snake. But as to which end was the head and which the tail, she had no clue. They were lost. Her brother stirred beside her, and woke suddenly. He did as she had done, and saw their predicament. What shall we do? His voice was soft and timid. I don't know. Fear and sadness grows within them and they shuffle closer, putting their delicate arms around each other. A bird flutters out from a tree top somewhere not too far away, piercing the thickening silence with its shrill cry. Something rustles behind them. They spin round, ready to face whatever ferocious beast might be there, drooling and ravenous, ready to devour them. Hello, children. It was only a fox. His auburn coat was fine and silky, and the white tip of his brush bobbed cheerfully behind him, beckoning them closer. He cocked his head to one side and the light flashed in his jade- green eyes. What are you doing alone in the forest? It's not safe for you, you know. The children did not reply. Sniffing, the fox ran a circle around them. You look as though you have had nothing to eat for weeks. Why don't you come back to my house with me? There is plenty to eat there. My master will help you. Astounded by their good fortune, the children stumbled to their feet and dumbly followed the fox along a winding and almost invisible trail between the trees, into the darkness. Twigs snapped to their right and left, echoing round under the canopy of leaves above them, the sound of their footsteps deadened by the leafy floor of the forest. They had to run from time to time to keep pace with the fox as it trotted before them. Eventually the curious trio reach a clearing. In the centre is a small house with a round wooden door. The red paint is shiny and intact, and the doorknob gleams invitingly at them. They approached the cottage and followed their guide inside. The smell of baking enveloped them the moment they entered, and a blanket of warmth surrounded them. They saw a large stove, a table and chairs and three beds in the corner. Some clothes were drying by a large fire: socks and shoes and a few child-size shirts. Why don't you have a lie down? Master's not home yet, but he will be. I'll explain everything. You just rest. The children collapsed into the beds in the corner. They sank into the welcoming mattresses, their tired eyes sinking shut before their heads had had time to dent the pillows.  
  
Wake up, you slovenly little wench, wake up! Why should I have to do the work while you lie festering in bed? Get up! The little girl opened her eyes and blinked to clear her blurred vision. A tall man was standing over her, his green eyes ablaze with fury. She knew they were the same eyes she had trusted the day before. He grabbed her by the arm and wrenched her out of the comfortable bed. She gave a small cry and he relented a little, weakening his grip on her. Looking around, she could not see her brother. Empty bed. Empty chairs. Empty room, apart from her and the man. But the oven was ablaze, throwing out heat into the cottage. A blood-red light illuminates the floor. Full of fear, the little girl does as he tells her while she tries to think of a way to escape. She cannot overpower him - he is far too strong for her. She is alone. She sweeps the floor, polishes the windows and washes the pans piled up in the sink. And she carefully stows away a knife in her apron. He calls her over. Now, sit down and listen. His voice is harsh and cruel, with an edge to it she has not heard before. She does as she is told. I was going to cook you too. Her eyes flick to the oven and back. But I have another idea. His eyes crawl all over her body, making her want to shrink into herself. She is revolted. She does not move an inch. She remained mute as he took her to the bed. She did not speak as he undressed himself. When he was standing naked in front of her, she slowly reached for the buttons on her dress, beginning to undo them. But she knew he could not wait. She knew he would force her back onto the bed, his body on top of hers, pressing so hard on her chest that she could hardly breathe. She let him do it, never making a sound. She moved with him, breathed with him, always waiting. When she knew it was time, she worked one hand free from his sweating, trembling grip and reached into her apron, grasping the hard handle of the knife she had taken. Seizing her chance she drew it out and positioned the blade beneath him, ready. When she could no longer bear it, she pushed upward with all her might, twisting the knife as she felt it enter his body. She felt him jerk violently, and pushed harder. He fell limply on top of her and lay still. She wriggled out from beneath his lifeless form. The little girl took off her apron and threw it into the oven. She took off all her clothes, stained with crimson victory, and threw them into the blaze. Then she took the clothes hanging by the fire and put them on. The clothes of another, less fortunate. She tidied her hair and washed her hands, then skipped for joy around the blazing oven, a pagan celebration of death in the light of the dancing flames. 


End file.
